#crow.exe

[lt-crow]

callsign twins………..

it's nice, not being the only crow. perhaps we should find a flock.

[deceptivelyanxious]

romancore

[dunspork]

also in case ur wondering ‘who is this little dog that is suddenly everyone on this blog’  thats chris! hes my fursona lol heres what he looks like

sorry the ref says nonbinary hes a trans guy just like me hes basically me but a lil more confident so he wears what he wants

ok NOW im done goodnight

[lt-crow]

It's the remnants of a battle fought that Saw finds himself walking through, one boot in front of the other as it makes contact with stone and blood alike. It was a firefight between the Task Force and Shadow Company- A clear ambush from the efforts of the 141. It seemed their intelligence and information gathering was more clever than they thought. It made no difference to Graves- more bodies between him and the Captain's grasp. And it meant they could relocate, recoup, and create a new strategy. Saw had his rifle close to his chest, in proper form ready to strike when needed. He knew there were stragglers- always was, with how sloppy the Task Force handled their operations. Too many thought themselves heroes. Too many were left behind. It made Saw want to sneer. He stands over the body of one. Frail, bleeding out, no doubt, from several stray bullets. Pity. But he doesn't take chances. He lifts his rifle to fire, aiming at the body's head. It would've been clean. "I want intel, Shadows, and we got a gold mine of it out there. No lethal force, capture alive. But you know my preference. Hop to it." He internally sighs, but keeps his rifle up as he kicks the body beneath him with a boot. @saw-shadow-company

To say the mission didn't go as planned would be an understatement. They rarely do, but that's Crow's specialty: taking a shit situation and turning it into an opportunity. Reversals in combat and battles are his forte.

But this time... this time, there was no opportunities to be had. They were outgunned. Too many were wounded. Their ambush had been turned on them. They'd underestimated Shadow Company--he had underestimated them--and they'd paid the price in blood and bodies.

And Crow has a duty to get his men out alive. Even if that means staying back. Setting up small ambushes. Shooting anything that gets too close as the others escape. Using knives when he's out of bullets. Using fists when he's out of knives. Getting coated in enough blood--his own and Shadow Company's--to fill a bath tub.

It's the price for coming back from the dead. Crow has to prioritise the living. Under every circumstance, they are more valuable. Have more to lose. Crow doesn't have a flat, a family, people who will miss him. They do.

His hand holds a bullet wound closed. He's losing blood, too much of it. A chill seeps into him, one that reminds him of Verdansk; a cold embrace waits him, he just has to reach for it.

A kick to his side shocks him out of a cold stupor; Crow hisses, glaring up at the assailant. He doesn't have strength. He's barely conscious. But he's done more with less. With his last remaining bit of strength, he kicks at the man's leg, hoping to force it to buckle. Anything. Anything to give him the upper-hand again.

Anything to not seem the crow with clipped wings that he is.

[lt-crow]

[ No one is coming to save you. ]

[ Get up.

No one will save you.

Get up.

One breath after the first. One centimetre at a time. Through blood thicker than wine, warm and tacky. Through rattling gasps that shake his body. Through the cold that has settled in his bones. Through it all, he drags himself.

No one will save him. Get up. Get up.

His gloves soak blood into the fibres. His arms tremble as he tries to push himself up. Get up, C—

And he falls. He’s falling fast into the thick fog, where his thoughts catch on mud and his consciousness is dragged below the bog. He’s falling, drowning, dying, and no one will save him. No one can.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Close, but so distant. Boots stop before his hazy gaze. A knee drops into the blood pooling on the floor. A voice, so familiar, says something—but through the cotton in his ears, he can’t hear it. What they said. Who it is.

His eyes close.

And open to blinding white. It sears his eyes. His chest heaves, the clothes he’d been given drenched in a cold sweat. His hand touches at his throat and comes back dry.

He can’t stay here. He won’t stay here. On wobbly legs he stands and leaves the infirmary.

The base is quiet. The moon hangs high in the sky. And Crow sits atop the hangar, legs dangling off the edge, eyes on the sky.

It’s quiet. He takes a breath, laying back. Perhaps he’ll close his eyes, just for a moment more. ]

[lt-crow]

A towel and a water bottle land with a soft thud on a bench in the training room. Graves has made the effort to wrap his hands already, an indication of nothing other than vanity.

Graves knows nothing of Crow nor his abilities (a question that went unasked to his assistant in favor of more fun activities), but his confidence has carried him thus far in life. The look he shoots at Crow exudes it, a cocky grin on his lips.

"Y'got a preference for music, soldier?"

@cmdr-graves

Crow looks up from where he'd been folded to the floor, stretching. His eyes flick first to the water bottle, then Graves' hands, before finally settling on his face. They narrow, just for a moment; his expression settles back into neutral.

Commander Graves. To say he's famous--or infamous, rather--would be an understatement. All the bravado of a homegrown American hero, mixed with the ego of a man with more power than sense. Normally Crow would steer well clear of men like him, but he doesn't have much of a choice here.

If they're going to be stuck on base together, he'd prefer to get a sense for his ability. The devil you know, and all that.

[Anything heavy is fine,] comes the text-to-speech voice from his phone. Crow stands, flexing his gloved hands. Watching. Waiting. Then, before he can stop himself, he types out: [Though we could listen to a lullaby while I knock you out.]

[lt-crow]

A bunch of text messages arrived rapidly on your phone, many sentences either cut in the middle or words so unrecognizable. The last one was coordinates a shared location link to a bar

[oalse cimr... hlo]

@callsign-ghosthand

Crow blinks at his phone, concern increasing with each unsuccessful sentence. They're indecipherable but all relatively straight-forward: Kieran is hammered.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes and pushing away from his desk. The mountain of paperwork he'd had waiting for him after his mandatory break will have to wait. Or he'll come back to it after he gets Kieran back in one piece.

[ On my way. ]

The bar isn't too far away, at least--means Kieran will have a fighting chance not falling off the back of Crow's bike. When he pulls up, he puts one foot down, watching the door. Debates on putting his kickstand down.

And with a sigh, he does; Crow's bike cuts off into silence as he turns off the engine and slips off. A few patrons give him an odd stare as he slips through, eyeing his helmet, his riding gear, him as he looks for the Kieran.

[lt-crow]

found a bunny on base. thanks for the spar, @callsign-ghosthand

ref